


Fissures

by catc10



Category: Doom (2005), Star Trek
Genre: M/M, Reaper!McCoy, Rough Sex, St_xi kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catc10/pseuds/catc10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A LONG TIME AGO I WROTE STUFF FOR THE ST_XI_KINK_MEME AND THIS WAS SOME OF IT.<br/>Prompt here:<br/>http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/9684.html?thread=8522196#t8522196</p>
<p>Kirk initiates self-defense classes, and Spock realizes that Doctor McCoy isn't as bad as he appears to be. Then there is a short ride in a shuttle.</p>
<p>Warnings? Gratuitous Strong!Kink and Wall!sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fissures

It took the death of twelve security members for Jim to initiate a self-defense class. Two months into a five year mission, a ship should only lose two, three security members, tops. Then, as time passed, those unable to hack it would get injured badly enough to get sent home, or killed in the line of duty. It was terrible, but it was Darwin’s principle at its best, and it had been working for Star Fleet so far. They did what they could for security, their lives weren’t fodder to the winds, but…military life was hard, and the higher-ups in command knew that.

Twelve, however, was just ludicrous.

Reading the mission reports showed no flaw in judgment on the parts of the Enterprise’s command staff, though, so Star Fleet had to let it go. The ship was too far out to get new recruits for a while, a year, maybe, before Star Fleet’s newest trainees could be counted upon to be fully prepared for the higher-level thread faced from on board the flag ship. If so many of the previous year’s graduating class of Star Fleet Academy hadn’t died during the first terrible act of the infamous Narada Incident, the admiralty might have been able to pull security members off other ships to relay-teleport new crew to the ship, but ninety five percent had perished, and the rest of the fleet had as much of a skeleton crew as the Enterprise.

So Jim, ever an optimist, had made due.

He called upon all the members of his crew with advanced hand to hand and weapons combat training to take under their wing a group of students, to impart violent knowledge upon until such a time as either student or teacher died or was incapacitated in the line of duty. Groups would arrange their own meeting times, and meet at least once a week for two hours. The crew would find a list of their teammates or students on their PADD’s public data folder, and please, wouldn’t they have a nice day?

Leonard H. McCoy stared at the ship’s broadcast terminal in Med Bay with an expression akin to a fish: wide eyed and gawping, waiting for a nurse to playback Chekov’s cheery relation of mortal combat. The doctor fished out his PADD, buried near the bottom of a stack of patient files in his arms, and tapped his way through the menu screens to find the correct folder. He stabbed it with his index finger.

The bright blue file icon blew up into a full screen and opened.

_‘Team DEADLASTS. Txt’_ blinked back at him, unperturbed.

“ _DEADLASTS?!_ ”

Half appalled, half numbly disbelieving, he clicked the file, “Team leader _SPOCK?!_ ”

That so-called-Friday saw Bones grumpily storming into the officer’s gym, five minutes late for Spock’s ordered meeting time, having re-arranged any schedules that conflicted with the group’s popular free time.

“Doctor McCoy, you are five point two minutes late, please refrain from this in the future. I was just imparting upon your classmates the importance of breathing and stretching exercises before strenuous activity. Please take your place at that mat there,” the Vulcan pointed, “and I will continue.”

McCoy, dressed in the standard uniform, scoffed at various pudgy lab techs that shared class with him, and did not do as instructed. “What’s with the pajama party?”

“It is best to perform activities such as these in the maximum level of comfort, Doctor. I advise you to arrive in similar dress next week.”

“I won’t be here next week.”

“That is regrettable. Might I inquire why?”

“I’m busy.”

Spock frowned using his eyebrows, a miniscule furrowing above the bridge of his sharp nose. “I do not understand how you could come to this conclusion, Doctor. I have shifted your schedule that you would be off duty at the appointed time, and the Captain has informed me that you do nothing with your free time that cannot be rearranged.”

McCoy snorted, “You saying I don’t have better things to do, hobgoblin?”

In all seriousness, the first officer answered, “Attendance, barring emergency, is _required_ , Doctor McCoy. I suggest you rearrange your plans. Take position on your mat, the rest of us are ready to begin.”

Hissing through his teeth, the dark-haired doctor did as requested, and proceeded to flub his way through every exercise that took more concentration than a knat’s. He was so bad that the botanist woman that would otherwise be worst in class was giving him an amused, pitying glance. The class was simple, breathing and stretching, then a rundown of two tai-chi forms, repeating those forms for ten minutes, a break (that McCoy spent having everyone sit down for a once over with his tricorder), repeating the forms for fifteen minutes, learning some new forms, then repeating those for a while. Another break, then Spock had the class of seven demonstrate all the forms they’d learned individually, that he might correct them while the others observed or practiced themselves.

McCoy spent time doing neither, only stalking from lab tech to lab tech while waving his tricorder in the vicinity of their chests.

“ _Whoo!_ This is tough, isn’t it, Doctor?” said the botanist. She was slightly overweight, though how she’d kept on such poundage after being subjected to nothing but replicated food for two months was beyond him. His scanner snapped in front of her chest and began reporting blood pressure, heart rate, and hormone levels.

“Sure.”

“Don’t worry about not being that great at it, I’m not so good, either. I can tell that it’s just your form that’s off…or maybe your center of balance is too high? Er…maybe I can’t tell after all, but it should come after some practice, right?”

He glowered at her and her perky, nervous smile, “I’m a Doctor, not a martial artist!” he snapped, “and I don’t care to be told to pretend that I am!”

The woman cringed back just as Spock snapped, “Doctor McCoy, you will speak with me at the end of class.”

_Were they in the third grade?!_

“I will do no such thing! I’m getting back to Sick Bay after this, to look after the security officer who came back from the last away mission with _moss_ for _hair_!”

“Your dedication to your job is commendable, Doctor McCoy, but as you are off duty during that time, then it will not be detrimental that you arrive a few minutes later than you had planned in order to speak with me. And you will do so, Doctor. Ensign Cervantez, it is your turn; please take up the first position.”

Leonard growled deep in his throat and bit the insides of his lips to keep quiet. It really was his own fault he was in this mess, he had fashioned McCoy into nothing short of a genteel man back in southern Georgia, a man who never fought with fists, opened doors and pulled out chairs, said please and thank you and ma’am and sir. After getting sick of being Russian (and wouldn’t it have been hilarious if adorable _sewenteen_ year old Pavel Chekov knew that the grumpy doctor knew exactly what it was he had been saying under his breath during his physical?) he’d returned to the states to create a new identity.

He’d spent the last hundred years or so as the legendary ‘Kirill’, an assassin whose name was supposedly passed down teacher to student, for there was no way the original, trained one hundred fifty years ago by a disgraced government agency called Treadstone, was still alive. An assassin so feared, because he never lost his target and, if you paid enough, the body would never be found. He’d been a scourge of the underworld, dealt death to bad men, killed any who stepped over the bounds of morality, accepted pay to kill anyone else (no women, no children, no innocents). No one had been safe from him if he’d set his sniper scope to their temple! But, no, he hadn’t gained his title from another. He was the original, only Treadstone didn’t train him, and he hadn’t died. He was sick of death.

He wanted homey.

He wanted warm.

A life with love, and family and heat like you couldn’t find in the cold, dark basements of Russia. So he’d arrived in New York, and hopped onto a hover bus that would scoot him into Georgia. He hitchhiked for a week, sitting silently in diners until he could fake the accent without slipping, and settled into a college town with the claim that he was younger than he looked, and worked as a dishwasher until the following semester, when he quietly joined the student body of Mississippi University.

Using his lucrative amounts of blood money to pay his way kept him comfortable, though never so much that his classmates wondered.

Three years later he’d graduated top in his class, with honors weighing down his shoulders as he stepped over the threshold into Medical school. Over his next several years, charming women and his professors with classic Gone-with-the-Wind grace and light speed intellect, no one noticed that as he went from ‘twenty three’ to ‘twenty seven’ he hadn’t aged a day.

He met Jocelyn just after starting his residency at a local hospital, and within two years they were married.

To this day, he’s not really sure what went wrong. Time flows different when you experience so much of it, the same way a child feels every second of every day of every year, and an adult with feel like New Year ’s Day comes around once a month. It gets faster as you get older, and he was very, very old. One day he was a newlywed, the next, an adoptive father, and by the end of his week, a bitter divorce, on his way into the dark speckled void most called heaven but he _knew_ to be hell. Five years gone by in a week, leaving him only the memory of a woman who’d tried to love him and a four-year-old daughter who would never know him.

Which was probably for the best.

Thus, Leonard Horatio McCoy, southern gentleman with a smile like a clear blue sky and a twinkle in his eye like light dappled through a tree’s canopy turned bitter and salty, with more sass than care and a bedside manner like a grouchy bobcat. Still damn good at his job, though. He bluffed his way through alcoholism and rehab while he ‘studied’ at StarFleet, ‘sobering up’ and making it once again to the top of his class. How, lamentably predictable.

McCoy was a fun part to play; he was sassy, intelligent, liable to fly off the handle, used any saying that he could make up on the spot, had any number of imaginary relatives to call reference to, and had a great guy for a best friend. He liked McCoy.

The class filtered out at Spock’s dismissal, and the half-Vulcan calmly turned chocolate-dark eyes to the scowling Doctor.

He’d made sure that ‘fighter’ was never in the word set used to describe one, Leonard, McCoy.

“Doctor.”

“Spock.”

“I believe that you might respond better to a one-on-one learning environment.”

“I don’t fight at all.”

“You are not a pacifist, Doctor.”

“I mean fist-fights you over-grown computer! I’m a gentleman!”

“Fighting in the name of your own defense is hardly an ungentlemanly act, Doctor –”

“Argh! No!”

 

McCoy quit attendance of the required self-defense classes and didn’t get bothered about it for almost three weeks, at which point he arrived to observe Spock and Kirk’s weekly chess game at the usual hour only to get dragged away the moment he arrived, with two arms circled around each of his, and the two men towing him in the direction of the gym. “What the?! Jim, you kook, what the hell are you doing?”

“Now Bones,” said the captain, with far too much glee to be safe, or perhaps sane, “I know what your self defense skills are like: You told me the story where you diagnosed your defense instructor’s ulcer during your final exam.”

“Dammnit, Jim!”

He was thrown to a mat, landing in a roll.

“Listen, Len!” There was the briefest of shudders in the captain’s voice, and McCoy’s eyes twisted towards Jim, “We all need to learn at least a little bit on how to keep ourselves safe, Bones. I would –WE wouldn’t do so well without our CMO.”

“M’Benga would be CMO.”

Jim grinned, and somehow the ear-to-ear smile was _sad_ , “But he wouldn’t be _you_ , Bones. Because it looks as though you’re not going to cooperate, Spock and I have decided upon a sink or swim approach. We’re going to drag you here any time we feel like it, and then Spock will proceed to give you a light beat down until you can beat him out the door and get away. Learning from experience!”

Gaping silence, “You can’t be serious.”

Jim cracked another smile and slipped out the door.

Spock’s foot cracked down less than an inch away from Leonard’s head.

_“HOLY FUCK!”_

He rolled away and to his feet, backing up as the Vulcan threw ruler-straight straights and whipping crosses. Leonard hit a wall and scrambled around it, heading for the door. He was grabbed from behind by his shirt back and thrown once again to the floor, rolling without pause and on his feet again.

Spock’s pin like eyebrows furrowed as each fist was carefully weighed and thrown. Leonard swiped half-hearted fists back, missing by miles and very consciously not leaping into Spock’s wide open right flank.

Spock kicked out a leg and put a solid hit into the doctor’s hip and he went down with all the grace of a tripping giraffe.

“Gee. I’m down.” He muttered, glowering at the less-than-smug Spock. The tilt of the other’s brow suggested the other was angry. “Are we done, now?”

“Until next time in any case, Doctor.” One hand extended down, and McCoy took it.

 

Leonard got thrown to the mat for the fifth time in a single session.

“OW, goddamn _what_ , Spock?!” the CMO snarled as he rolled up, burning daggers into Spock’s furiously dipped browline.

“I would appreciate it if you would cease this silly charade, Doctor.”

“What charade? You’re _knocking me on my ass every thirty damn seconds_ _you hobgoblin!_ If I could have I’d have thrown your ass down two months ago instead of let you kick mine all over the gym! It’s embarrassing!”

The dragging trips to the gym for a forced workout were nearly daily, and the Doctor still had to get hauled there by both arms. Spock had once attempted to carry him in the interest of letting Jim spend his time on things responsible captains would have done, but Leonard had bit the science officer’s ear near half-off in his indignity, then used it as an excuse to send them both in the way of Med Bay instead.

Spock’s spine jerked and the Vulcan spoke with all the stiltedness of someone truly boiling with rage, “You are not a novice martial artist, but you insist upon wasting both your and my time with this illogical, possibly pathological, need to hide this fact! You will not be leaving today until this is finished with, then we might both be free to do as we like, rather than waste time and resource!”

“And where, pray tell, do you get _that_ particular piece of horse shit?!”

“If given careful observation, it is obvious! You never fall incorrectly, which is incongruous with the fact that you overbalance frequently. You do not hesitate, which indicates that you act from habit and muscle memory and that you do not over think. But most telling perhaps, is that you are _not_ an unintelligent man, and yet you are _insisting_ on recreating the same mistakes over and over again!” Spock spat the last at the former soldier-baker-administrator-teacher-undertaker-deadbeat-assassin-and-then-some with venom that sent the man reeling.

Spock’s face flushed brightly with the heat of retreating anger, tightly clawed fingers drawing into fists that had the power to crush bones with a mighty swing. “This… _conclusion_ frustrates me.”

“Er…I can see that.”

“I do not mean to accuse you, Doctor, but my elder self has imparted upon me the advice of listening to my ‘instincts’ even when their logic is based only on things as nebulous as a fine mist.” He turned dark eyes towards the floor, and for a single moment looked so dejected that the small part of him, the _himself_ and _he_ that he allowed to remain his original self, twinged in sympathetic ache.

“Aw, poppycock, Spock. Don’t lie. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if you didn’t mean to accuse me.” The doctor shifted, “…Am I that obvious?”

One pointed eyebrow shot into a dark hairline.

“Aw, hell! You weren’t sure!”

“No, Doctor, I was not. But to know it now, may I ask you to elaborate?”

McCoy shoved at imaginary smudges on the floor, “On what?”

“Your combat training.”

“No.”

“Doctor, those skills may be critical in a mission someday, and in the interest of crew safety—”

“Can’t you just be _interested?!_ Does every fact finding mission need some practical application?!”

Spock paused. “No. I suppose not. Please –Leonard—for my own curiosity: What is the extent of your combat skill that you became accustom to the idea of hiding it?”

Somewhere, beyond the walls of the gym, a ship was moving faster than the speed of light, and there were hundreds of lives that looked to him for medicine. There was an Engineer slacking off and a lab tech about to botch up and a young man jogging the corridors like a bounding, happy puppy, and McCoy was unaware of it all. Right now, Spock, standing green and piqued with Vulcan compulsion to know, was the only thing that registered.

_What is the extent of your skill that you became accustom to hiding it?_

_You don’t wanna know._

“Kid…if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“The human phrase is: _Try me_.”

Gracefully, McCoy executed a simple back handspring that put him fully on his feet once more. He tilted his head, and _looked_ at the first officer. Weighing him with the _extra_ , and a feeling of _right_ and _correct_ settled on his tongue the same way a taste like _buttered toast_ or _peach cobbler_ would. Clean. Healthy.

“Military.”

“Your file does not include a military record, Doctor.”

“It wouldn’t. Haven’t been in the forces for a long time.”

Spock frowned with the barest of twitches down in his eyebrows, “Military service is not something that gets left out of files, no matter the duration of time since active duty.”

Leonard ran a broad hand through the thick hair on his head, rubbing at his scalp and sending tingling through his spine. “It is if they think you’re dead.”

“That would require your current identity to be a fabrication.”

The doctor said nothing.

The gym rang with silence.

“Doctor, I require you by law to explain that statement.”

If he was thinking what he _thought_ he was thinking...well, he must be getting older (or at least more senile) than he’d thought. _What the hell, let’s do this shit!_

“I’m a genetic mutation created by freak accident and mortal peril in a Martian lab two hundred plus some years ago during a military seek and destroy mission that went horribly, horribly haywire, and to make a long story short, it gave me super powers like the impeccable inability to die. I also heal really fast, like, re-grow a limb or two in the span of three hours _fast_ , have super speed, super strength, and super intelligence. In the interest of not becoming a lab rat, I remake my identity every few years, switch jobs and industry, and rebuild myself using only so much of my true personality as that can’t be traced back to who I was directly previously. Over the years, I’ve been everything from a homeless man to the best paid assassin anywhere, and once, I was even a small-town politician until I got hit by a drunk driver and had to skip town earlier than expected.”

During his little speech, Spock’s frown grew deeper and more foul until it could be obvious to a _rock_ that not only did Spock disapprove of McCoy’s silliness, but he had half a mind to take said silliness and shove it unpleasant places if the doctor did not cease mocking him _right this second_. McCoy ended with a shit-eater’s grin splitting him from ear-to-ear. It was… surprisingly nice to say it out loud for once. In so far as he could remember, he never had. Never written it down, either.

Spock stormed out the door with nary a glance back, “Hey!” McCoy called after him, “I haven’t even gotten to the part about my better half twin sister or the tragedy of the lab scientists who were all transformed into hideous cannibal creatures!”

 

For eight, blissful weeks, no one who liked Spock spoke to McCoy.

Not even Jim.

 

Quite content to sit in his office and file reports in a way most others couldn’t understand and often mocked or scoffed at, McCoy was allowed himself to relax just as completely as he could. Unconsciously his ears kept themselves pricked for any signs that someone would try to force their way past his locks and enter upon his sanctuary, but leaned back in a pose of leisure. It was a slouching, feet-on-his-desk sort of posture that would have sent him foaming upon Jim had he caught the other doing it.

Jim had been mildly surprised that McCoy did not seem to want for his company. Jim had attached himself unflinchingly to the prickly doctor from shuttle-ride onwards, and did not seem capable of comprehending the idea that Leonard had not attached himself right back. He’d gotten on fine before Jim. He’d get on fine after…and McCoy had long gone numb to the fact that there was _always_ an after. By the time he met someone he was already planning on how to leave them, in ingrained habit. Jim was only special in that McCoy would remember him long after the others; he’d started as the-faceless-friend-he-would-leave-in-this-life, but had become _Jim_ by sheer force of personality.

He took a moment to contemplate what exactly that meant about him; what it meant that people could seem so important and innovative still in the whole, but individual people had become enough like objects that they had to _become_ someone before the doctor could look upon them differently.

Who did he know now as a person?

Jim, as a given.

Uhura? Not really. He got along with her in the periphery, but…well, she would consider them friends, he guessed. Maybe. Women weren’t his thing. Even after two hundred years, a man would never understand a woman. No. Uhura had her place as an officer of StarFleet, and only in this was she really ‘human’ to McCoy.

Sulu? Chekov? Sulu was something like Uhura, if less mysterious; a fine officer, but not of much consequence to the doctor. Chekov was…huh. He thought of Chekov as a person. Chekov was cute and puppyish and a child. Innocent. A kid.

The Kid.

Chekov.

McCoy abruptly turned from the train of thought and shifted his thoughts off of Chekov, gurgling blood through a hole in his neck, and towards Scotty.

Scotty was neither a role to be filled nor a person. He was simply part of the Enterprise, like any of the engine parts or warp core. How curious.

Spock was… _Spock_. One hundred years after first contact, he was still shifty on the idea of aliens, but Vulcans could be worse, he supposed. Spock was…

There was no way to describe Spock.

And just as he’d arrived at this conclusion, the doctor’s ears grabbed his attention, with just enough time for him to put his feet on the floor and turn a bone-melting glare upon the tall figure that had blown so easily past his security.

“Doctor McCoy, we must speak.”

“Ah, Spock…speak of the devil, and he comes. Of course. Speaking to me, now?”

Spock stared out from his lowered brow. With his eyebrows, it should have looked like glaring, but the soft humanness of the Vulcan’s eyes…something _scared_ him? The faintest of shivering, wary glitters in the back of his eyes, where the retina caught the light and held it, rather than sending it on.

“For what it’s worth, Spock, I didn’t think you’d handle such a thing so badly…just joking with you, really…” not a complete lie, McCoy cleared his throat. “What is it you need to speak with me about, exactly?”

Spock wordlessly held out his PADD, and the doctor took it.

On it was open a subspace network browser, opened to all sorts of files on many windows, public, private, databases, conspiracy sites, periodicals, random photos. A jumbled mess of obsession before it was trimmed and cleaned into something professional and sharp. He gave Spock, still standing in his doorway awkwardly frozen, half in and half out and slouched in such a way that suggested the Vulcan wished nothing more than to bolt, but something was keeping him here. In McCoy’s office, with McCoy looking at his mess of a PADD. Highly uncharacteristic of the alien.

He kept flipping through, and slowly a truth became evident, and not a particularly pleasant one.

Buried at the very bottom was a single image of a military ID card, the only one he’d ever had before becoming a living ghost with the RRTS.

“We must speak, doctor, about Mister John Grimm.”

_Oh damn._

At a speed the Vulcan could hardly register, McCoy stabbed at the PADD, looking through everything it was displaying in a rush. The public files were of various people he’d been, with an unsettling lack of gaps in time. The private files had the damage of those broken into, and in a rush. If Spock wasn’t careful he was going to get caught. Luckily, no one paid much mind to older history files, and so long as he didn’t change them there would only be a fine to pay after conviction. The databases were opened to subject matter that he’d discovered over the years under various names and pseudonyms, everything from a gun-patent he’d gotten one hundred and fifty years ago to an aging physics theory he’d laid rights to ten years ago under the name ‘Hugo Lloyd Fargo’. A few of them had pictures, blurry and soft, but recognizable.

No one would have realized the men were all the same without careful study.

No one who’d thought so had been a slighted Vulcan.

Except for crazy conspiracy theorists, who had a number of sites based on the strange look-alikes that popped up in such varied fields over such seemingly vast time spans, no one cared.

The most compelling evidence pieces were the photographs that had seemed random. People posing with their friends, and dressed in whatever had been fashionable or unfashionable as the personality persuaded. McCoy never wanted to be in photographs at his friends’ parties, after enough black eyes, everyone, even Jim, had stopped trying. But he wouldn’t object if he was in the background, and several old friends had captured him there, frequently.

The doctor’s gaze flicked up to meet Spock’s.

Then a knee snapped up, cracking Spock’s PADD in two as John Grimm _bolted_.

Muffled and startled shouts behind him urged him on faster as he careened through halls, making a maze through the ship, Spock not far behind at _all_ , and that was _bad_. Spock was a scientist, and suddenly, even joking about his life against the logician seemed like it had been a very stupid, very _obvious_ mistake. Logically, the Vulcan should have never investigated, shouldn’t have even _thought_ to do so…it wasn’t a mistake John was planning on making again.

He shoved a shouting security officer to the floor as he went banging into Engineering, Spock hot on his heels. _If only ships weren’t so cramped!_ The tiny spaces were choking his freedom to move, and in Engineering, where there was nothing to walk on but tiny catwalks and gaps between pipes, it was even worse. Parkour only helped so much when you didn’t like the idea of landing on a curved pipe.

Throwing himself over the side of a steep stair, John landed on another catwalk, the one he needed to get into the service entrance of the shuttle bay. His escape route was set. It was set even before the Narada catastrophe. He’d hacked the shuttles himself two weeks prior to that, upon receiving his orders update, which gave him the name of the ship he’d be assigned to at graduation. A graduation that had never happened after the graduating class was reduced to two hundred seventy three. A memorial service was held instead. The shuttles would all sit ready for launch as usual, then, once he was inside whichever one was most convenient, he’s input a pass sequence, and the shuttles would all shut down except for his, which would take off on a random vector until he decided otherwise. The Enterprise’s engines would lock, unable to follow for three days, and then he’d be gone from wherever they chased the shuttle’s ion trail to.

His body banged on the door, unable to open quickly enough to allow him passage, it dented inward sharply. The clattering of Spock’s feet hitting the metal catwalk rose in volume and tempo –he was closing in! _Openopenopenopen!!!_

The door hydraulics hissed open eight inches and screeched to a halt, the convex bend on the opposite side of the doors, caused by his frantic body check into the metal, stopped them from breaking apart any further.

_“Goddamn mother fucking asshole!”_

He sucked in his gut and squeezed through the gap, slender fingers brushing his shoulder just as he slipped through. Once again, he bolted for a shuttle, one was already open and waiting, even as the shuttle techs scratched their heads in wonderment.

But the door had cost him time he didn’t have, Spock, much more slender than the doctor, slipped between them easily, was catching up. _Would_ catch up. John knew it the way that one always knows that their efforts are futile, the way that tugs at your heartstrings because you can’t _stop_. You’ll go on and on with your task, _trying_ , because doing otherwise is unthinkable. Unacceptable.

He’s so close to home free! In the shuttle, he pops the parking brake control, the thruster to full thrust, then full stop, he stabs at a number sequence, and a command to throw a ‘shute. The rear door begins to hiss shut at the odd, unconventional password input. The other six shuttles to USS Enterprise’s name powered down, and the hatch to his was halfway closed and shutting fast.

_So close so close so close…_

Spock rounded the next shuttle over, ran towards him, and hauled himself over the rising entry ramp, though the narrowest of gaps, then the hatched hissed pressurization, and the whole metal flying box jerked to the side, sending both occupants tumbling, and left her docking.

For a bare minute, as they flew away, Spock and John simply stared across at one another from opposing ends of the back cabin, wide eyed and disheveled. Jim was going to be frantic, looking for them, John knew it.

Well…looking for Spock and McCoy. He wasn’t _really_ looking for _him_.

“You leapt onto a departing _shuttle_ ,” John said to the Vulcan.

“You believe that a shuttle can outrun a construction-class starship.”

“I set a timer program –The Enterprise won’t be moving for three or four days.”

“That is hardly sufficient time for you to find a suitable location to disembark.”

Reaper scoffed. “Suitable for a Starfleet officer, maybe, but Space is no less crowded than the Mid West…someone will be around. I can set up a beacon for you from shuttle parts when we get there.”

“Doctor McCoy –”

“Oh quit it, that won’t earn you any points.”

“ _Doctor McCoy_ , it is in our best interests to return to the Enterprise.”

“I’m not an idiot, Spock.”

“I have never held any ill-will towards you, Doctor.”

“So you _don’t_ want to rip me apart for lab experiments, then?”

“Never.”

Spock actually looked scandalized: the pointed ends of his eyebrows twitched down and up just once, very sharply.

John looked at the sprawled figure, “I don’t buy it. Not from a scientist. Not from a fully logical one at that.”

A dark head dipped almost unperceivable. “I only wish to talk, doctor.”

“I said _quit_ that! I’m not a doctor, and you know it –saying that I am _still_ isn’t earning you any points!”

“Your dedication and performance on the ship indicate otherwise, _Doctor_ , as does the very authentic MPHD in your file. Until we reach this…location for which you have departed, wherever it may be, you are stuck with me. Signs indicate that you are a captive audience for my speech.”

“Signs fuckin’ _indicate_ that we should check on ration and water supplies; _then_ , we will play the _quiet game_ where you sit on your ass _right where you are_ and you won’t come anywhere _near_ me.”

There was some more uncomfortable silence as Grimm fished out emergency supplies from under hard, unpadded seats. They had enough for one and a half days of food, three if they rationed carefully, Five if John only ate enough to not fully die, though it would leave him defenseless to Spock. The idea was utterly repulsive, and he did not want to linger on it.

“You are an immortal man, Doctor.”

He said nothing.

“I was able to track your presence back to John Grimm –though if he is the first of your identities, I cannot know. Information from before your time with that identity was nearly completely lost during the Eugenics Wars. Certainly, however, his time was quite violent. Even more so than your latest face: ‘Kirill’, was it not?”

_Die painfully_ , he did not say.

“While I admit to being far beyond curious over how such a thing came about, I am also wary of learning of it.” Silence.

“I…am wary, I have a worry, but not for myself.”

Spock licked his thin lips, the bottom one was split, though John couldn’t have said why.

“I worry, Doctor…for _you_.”

John literally gaped, mouth slack. The shuttle engine hummed behind him and underneath the floor and in the wall. It pressed in on him, “ _say what?!_ ”

Spock, brushing down his hair, fixed his posture and clothing, “My people are a race sensitive to emotion, even as we strive to limit it, and as touch telepaths, we are especially sensitive to mental disease when we see it.”

“You’re saying that I’m sick?”

“No, Doctor. But, if my research is any indicator, you will be. Sooner rather than later. Humans are not meant to be alone.”

“I wasn’t alone, you silly hobgoblin! I was on the Enterprise with four hundred other people and nowhere to go! I spent over a hundred hours per week treating patients! When was I _alone_? I could hardly _find_ time alone, when Jim was being particularly barnacle-like!”

“And yet you have not been off the ship for five minutes and have already separated yourself in ‘you’ and ‘us’.”

“And how exactly are you coming up with that conclusion?”

“By reason that you have not been off the ship for five minutes and already talk of it in the past tense.”

John, nor Reaper, nor even McCoy had a reply for that one.

Spock gave him one of his oddly blank soulful looks, “Doctor McCoy—”

“Grimm. I was born Grimm.” _Don’t tell him that!_

“…Doctor Grimm. Doctor, I…have come to respect your talents greatly over our brief time shared on the Enterprise, you have proved yourself as not only an exceptional medical professional, but as a good friend to the captain and many others on board. But I have long since been aware of your complete…solitude from others. This habit has greatly disturbed me for some time, but to know of such a long life deprived of closeness when your species needs it so much…I came to you today not just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“What did you come to do?” The question was out before John could really fathom what he was asking. He should have knocked the goblin unconscious at first opportunity, but he’d not only let him retain his _extremely perceptive_ coherence, but he’d let him _talk_. It was a disaster waiting to be let loose. This would end with the shuttle in shambles, and with one of them possibly in jail: mark his words.

“As I have stated, Doctor, I have worry for you, greater than it ought to be due to a certain…physical attraction to you.”

A beat as John’s mind shifted gears and made a lateral jump.

“Aren’t you with Uhura?”

“Not exclusively. She is allowed to another, as am I, though she has been more prone to using this than I.”

“And you were going to _what, offer yourself_ or some shit?”

“I was going to propose intercourse as a means of bridging physical and mental barriers, yes.”

…Okay, Grimm had been ready for a lot of responses to that question, but none quite so blatantly direct or so obviously in the affirmative. The shuttle absently scanned for docking stations, the hum of the scanners buzzing lightly in his ear, too soft and high-pitched for any normal human to hear, any Vulcan, even, though their pointed ears offered them more strength to the task than a human.

“And you expected me to fall in your arms or something?”

“I expected nothing but a talk on the possibility.”

_Oh…okay._

“Spock, I appreciate it, I really _really_ do, because it has been _far_ too long since I last got laid, but…I don’t trust you. Nothing against you, or Jim, or hell, Chekov, but,” his mind fled into dark places with nary a push. The terrible truths thrust upon him in a dark laboratory haunted by the misdeeds of its inhabitants, “I… _really_ , just _do not trust you_.”

Spock’s face didn’t change, though the reflections in his eyes showed confusion and something else that John didn’t chance naming. “You trusted us as Doctor McCoy, Doctor.”

His fingers absently tapped out melodies on the cold metal floor, “Duh, Spock. No one wants to _experiment_ on a simple country doctor!”

“Leonard Horatio McCoy was _never_ a simple country doctor, Doctor Grimm.”

It would have been a sudden movement for anyone but John, and Spock was _there_ , sitting a few bare hand spans from his knees. “I can prove it,” Spock said, “if you would allow me, Doctor.” He raised one hand, fingers splayed oddly.

Numbly, John nodded, knowing what was coming, and _letting it happen_. He felt for a moment like the world had turned on its head, cats were eating dogs while flies swarmed over the sun, and then, Spock’s hot fingertips brushed his face, and _he_ was there. Felt in a way John hadn’t ever known someone could be felt.

It was hard to describe a mind meld. It was like instantaneously knowing something and spending a day getting told the story, and it was hard to tell if time was slow, or fast, or even going at all. Gravity and self were stripped away, and all that one had was a pseudo omni-presence, a third party out of body flying dream that one couldn’t control. Spock wasn’t going to turn him in. He just wanted to hold on to him tightly enough that his fissures wouldn’t become cracks.

And John _had_ fissures. Places where one man just couldn’t stand on his own, but damn if John hadn’t tried anyway.

Spock drew away, point made, and then… _emotional transference is a common side effect of the meld…_

“I—”, the Vulcan started to say.

John kissed him, pressing forward into too-hot lips with his own.

“So…we need close, right? C’mon, then, Hobgoblin, let’s get closer.”

For a moment, Spock seemed ready to protest against him, but he relaxed, and let the ex-soldier climb over his body and suck his green-tinged tongue out of his mouth along with his breath and what may or may not have been one of his teeth. Spock moaned deep in his chest. Two blue shirts dragged against one another as the thicker-set body lowered to meet the skinnier frame of the Vulcan.

John had never been with anyone quite so _hot_ before; and while the part of him that sounded like M’Benga rattled on Vulcan physiology and higher central body temperatures, John simply let himself drown in the _warm_ and _good_ feeling that was soaking into his guts. Spock rucked up the medical blue shirt and rolled them over. It was a shock of cold to his back and hot hot _heat_ at his front and a wickedly practiced mouth on his own. The alien’s tongue twirled past his teeth, and John bucked. There was a semi-hardness to match his own. He felt it with his thigh as he thrust up into Spock’s hip.

Damn the height difference! John wanted to frot Spock’s erection against his own, but to do that and remain and closely pressed together as they were, which was (for the moment at least) a thing of highest priority, he would have to give up Spock’s wonderful lips. He whined.

“Damnit, Hobgoblin, why do you got to be so _tall_?”

The answer was said directly into his mouth, and oooh, that was hot, “Come, Doctor, surely you know enough about genetics to answer that yourself?”

Bitterness settled on the back of John’s mouth, and he gently pushed Spock away by a shoulder. The other tried to hold on, hot hands gripped tightly into the doctor’s back, but John was far stronger than the other. Far, _far_ stronger.

“Hang on, gremlin, gotta get naked, you know.” He pushed Spock up and off, and got up into a crouch himself. He backed away on his knees, with a sideways smile stretching his cheeks. Spock hadn’t meant to make a genetics crack. He hadn’t.

John, feeling a little better with the distance, rolled his hips and ran his own hands from his thighs up his body to his shoulders, dragging along his skin. “Like what you see, Spock?”

Spock nodded, pulling off his shirt.

Slowly, John stripped. First he peeled up his long sleeved shirt and the black thermal armor underneath with it. He hooked both over his head with a smile, and fondled his own chest, brushing through the sparse, dark hair there, and tweaking his nipples.

“Curious,” said Spock, leaning back leisurely, “I have never understood the human fascination with the nipple.”

“It’s a thing. Don’t worry about it.”

John smirked, the bitterness fading, and he continued down with his hands to rub gently at his belly and happy trail, leading Spock’s chocolate brown eye down to the tent of his regulation trousers and back up again. He waggled his fingers against his own skin, chuckling as Spock shivered lightly. The air in the cabin was heating up nicely.

John removed the shirts completely, tossing them back in a corner. “Come on, big guy,” he rolled his hips forward, an obscene imitation of a thrust, bumping a beat with them the way he remembered old-style belly dancers would. He’d taken a class once to make a man happy. The relationship hadn’t worked out, but John certainly learned something on how to move. Drawn forward by the metronome of John’s hips, Spock reached forward.

John slid his hands up behind his neck, keeping his hip beats steady, causing Spock’s normally deft fingers to fumble John’s fly. He let Spock push down his pants to the knees, and then rose using only the strength of his back and legs, hands kept where they were. His pants fell the rest of the way, and he backed out of them still popping his hips in a slow, hypnotic beat.

Spock swallowed thickly, and stood himself, less gracefully around the bulge in his pants. John took his first good look at the half-naked Vulcan.

Spock was tinted strangely, was his first observation. His blood was green when oxidized, and bronze-orange when not, and it gave his flesh a sallow tone that was made all the worse in the florescence of ship lighting. However, on Spock’s sharply angular body, and piercing feline features the coloring worked. T’Pau was one of the elders Spock had saved, and upon her, the same skin tones gave the impression of constant sickness. Spock was also surprisingly hairy. John’s body hair was of light-to-average density, in a fairly neat patch on his chest. Spock, by comparison…wasn’t.

Spock had _thick_ body hair, neat and soft looking from collarbone to the bottom of his ribs. A trail of hair connected his chest hair to his happy trail right over his belly button. John’s knees _knocked_ to think of rubbing his body against _that_. He bit back a moan. Spock’s forearms, too, had a layer of hair that John wouldn’t have attributed to the man. He wanted to see the Vulcan’s legs.

“Drop your pants, Hobgoblin, show me what’cher packing.”

Spock huffed out a snort, and did as asked, pushing pants off his slender hips, leaving himself in the plain black boxer-briefs that Star Fleet provided. There was a _significant_ tent inside them.

John hoped it was a tent.

Because to think of any cock that was _that_ size hurt to think about, both in terms of physical discomfort and pride.

Goddamn.

A sudden passing feeling of ridiculousness crossed John then, standing in his underwear, across from _the Hobgoblin_ , also in his under-roos, about to seduce one another for no other reason than it _might_ be a good idea. _This was insane!_

At least Spock was good looking, in an alien, logical-science-nerd sort of way.

John’s first male lover had been muscular and broad chested. Gunnery Sergeant Asher Mahonin…Sarge. Obviously, it had ended in a spectacular shit-show, but for a while they’d been better than good, and less good than great, but for the most part, all of John’s masculine conquests had fallen into the same physical description. Military, clean cut and buff.

Not a bean pole like Spock.

He chuckled with only the edge of bitterness, “Looks like a day for trying new things. Whip ‘em off, Spock.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the other said, thumbing the elastic edge of the black underwear, and skimming them over his bony hips, dropping off completely. The _massive_ erection bobbed lightly, too heavy to slap against his belly like it might have done in a porno.

John, Leonard, Bones, Grimm leaned heavily into the metal wall behind him, “ _Hot. Damn_. Spock, I don’t think I can fit all that in my mouth.”

“I do not require it to be in your mouth.”

“Oooh…that was innuendo, wasn’t it?”

John quickly pulled his own boxer-briefs off, his average dick twitching at attention, and smiled at his would-be lover. “Indeed,” he answered, with the barest of smirks in return.

Spock swelled forward, and their lips once again crashed together. “C’mon, Hobgoblin, work me over…I’m the one human who can take it all and not break…”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“John…call me John.”

Spock pulled away from the human’s cooler body with a wet pop, grinding his groin against John’s leg and that _thing_ long enough to rub against his _ballsack god_ damn _!!_ “As you wish,” huffing breaths, super hot, puffing against the soldier’s jaw and earlobe, “ _John_.”

The human groaned loudly, and was rewarded with the Vulcan wrapping him up tightly in too-hot hairy arms, and squeezing. John was smashed up to the rapidly heating metal at his back, grasped in what should have been a bone-crushing embrace, if he’d not been augmented as he had been. Awkwardly, his own arms came up to grab Spock back just as tightly, curling up under the alien’s arms to grab at high, toned shoulders.

A mouth sucked at the pulse point just under the super-human’s ear, laving it with tongue, and nipping with sharp, straight teeth. John in turn lapped at Spock’s rough jaw. It appeared smooth at all glances, but had the barest hint of stubble that scraped his tongue oddly. Grimm arched his chest forward to feel the drag of nipples on another’s chest hair, and the feel of another’s perky buds bump his, and shivered to have his wish granted. “Mmmmph,” Spock agreed.

John started a beat to it, writhing sinuously against the first officer of his ship, _damn, wouldn’t Chapel be jealous?_ He grinned at the thought of the petite blonde he’d come to respect, a fine nurse. She’d be going places, so long as she could end that habit of inappropriate crushes. “Got lube?” he asked.

“Negative, John. I had expected that any copulation would be after the fact.”

“Logical, but wrong. _Good_.”

John snagged the other’s hand and with sheer brute force brought it towards his face, “I know more about Vulcan’s than M’Benga has been led to believe, _Spock_ ,” and without further ado, sucked three fingers into the wetness of his mouth. Spock yelped incoherently, and panted into the wall for several minutes, gaining his brain back.

“On Vulcan… such an act would have been… reserved….for a spouse, alone.”

“Good thing I’m a pervy human then, isn’t it?”

Spock’s legs were getting dangerously wobbly before John eased up the sucking, nibbling assault on Spock’s fingers, releasing them with copious levels of dripping spit trailing back to his shiny red lips.

He raised an eyebrow to the Vulcan.

Spock reached wordlessly around John’s back, and slid his digits down the other’s ass crack. John spread his legs a little further apart with an encouraging grin. “Do it.”

One finger forced its way in with a delicious, loving burn, one that John hadn’t felt in a good while. Long enough for it almost to feel new again. “Aaahhh….that’s it. Thrust it.”

“Yes, John,” and Spock did.

John Leonard Reaper McCoy slowly bounced on the balls of his feet, aided by the continued twist and pull of his body, fucking himself on the finger until Spock took the hint and added the second, then third. They wormed inside him nicely, burning only enough to excite him further. He licked Spock’s sharp collarbone and fisted his chest hair, pulling rumbles from deep in the bottom of Spock’s torso. It was almost purring.

Almost.

The fingers inside him twisted and scissored, loosening his tightness. “You must relax, John.”

“Hahaa…I _am_ relaxed, Goblin. I en’t been this relaxed in a long damn time. That’s the super strength.”

“Then I suggest that we finish this way, for continuing without proper lubrication would be unwise.”

Spock had no inflections in his voice to dictate any feeling disappointed or otherwise for such a statement, but his mother’s eyes, human, reflected _something_. John decided to take it as sexual frustration. Thinking any further than that was just too hard with Spock’s hard on grinding against his own.

“Uh-uh,” John said, popping his legs around Spock’s that he might straddle the other. Then he sank down to a squat, slurping Spock’s super-hot length in his mouth without hesitation the moment it nudged past his bottom lip. He worked the thick head with his mouth, at this angle, it was all that would fit, running his tongue along the bottom vein and teasing the tip with lip and nibbling teeth. The rest he gripped with firm hands, marveling at how much more _warm_ the shaft was than him palms. For a human, the warmer the better, it was part of their biological prerogative, was it different for a Vulcan? Because Spock did not at _all_ seem upset with the ‘cool’ hands on his intimate parts!

He popped off the head and blew on it experimentally. Spock’s shuddering yelp and hip thrust gave the soldier all the information he needed to know. “Ooooohhh, boy, need to get you _wet_ Spock…this is _definitely_ going in my ass!”

“That is…unwise— _uughh!_ —John.”

“I heal really fast. Not lying. God, I _wish_ , though, that that wasn’t as true as it is. I used to wake up after…the morning after I mean,” with Sarge, “and I’d _ache_ all day, sometimes for more than one day. It was the best…”

“I don’t believe that I will ever truly understand human mating fetishes.”

“Don’t have to understand…just be understanding.”

Spock chuckled his way through a shivering wave of pleasure, “Uhura calls it…being –ah!—Aggressively open minded.”

“Smart woman.”

One of John’s hands dropped to his own erection, bright red along the shaft and changing into a lovely shade of purple at the head and tight ball sack. He teased the slit at the end, mirroring the motion on Spock with his tongue. Spock’s was definitely the most interesting dick he’d ever sucked, and not just for size (though that was definitely a large, eh-hehehe, to excuse the pun, part of it.) The Vulcan’s dick was big in all respects, but alien in that it flushed deep green across the head where blood was rushing just under the skin, and there was a ridge of bumps leading from mushroomed head to furry base, where the straightest pubes John had ever seen cradled him. Spock had no balls. The Vulcan testicles remained inside the body, unlike a human. Though the myth that their dicks were retractable, was just that: a myth. John salivated.

He dove down on the shaft, fitting as much of Spock in as would go. It was hardly half, but it was making McCoy John gag out little choking noises, and he drew off, leaving the meat glistening with saliva that he worked further down with his hand. He did this repeatedly, noting how Spock’s knees knocked anytime he gagged and made throaty moaning noises around the other’s meat.

His scalp itched, and John realized that Spock was gripping his lengthening brown hair with one trembling hand.

“That is enough, Doctor.”

John smiled mischievously around the cock in his mouth and shook his head in the negative. He increased suction and bobbed back down.

Spock _snarled_ and rammed John’s head back by the grip in his hair. The human male yelped a squawk. The hefty head of Spock’s dick nudged at his lips and forced its way inside. The other’s hold on his head forced him back onto his haunches and to arch, leaving his poor neglected shaft bobbing in air as Spock really _fucked_ the doctor-soldier-con artist’s mouth and he had to use both hands to brace himself on the wall. John choked. John gagged. He cried and went red-faced as air became increasingly hard to get.

And thrusting his own erection into the air just _wasn’t_ enough friction.

He was ripped away from his oral treat and yanked up by the armpits.

“You are not the only one of superior strength, _Leonard_ ,” Spock hissed, licking his bloodied bottom lip and blinking the frenzy from his eyes.

“Guh, yeah, Spock…prove it, baby,” John said, grabbing the first officer’s wide, wiry shoulders and hopping up to wrap muscular legs around the other’s waist, trapping their erections together. His hands shot up behind Spock’s neck and he _writhed_.

Spock surged forward, pinning the human’s body fully to the metal wall once more. They frot there for many long, grunting minutes, growing harder and making the other’s neck and lips wet with licks and kisses and red, or in Spock’s case, green, with love bites and nibbles. It was Spock who eventually fumbled under John’s leg to position himself at the immortal’s puckered entrance, pulsing with blood.

_“Holy FUCK jesus Christ riding an Ewok!”_

_Oh, oh Spock was even_ thicker _in his ass than he was giving him lockjaw…oh, this was such a bad idea, oh, nothing that big would ever, ever fit but DAMN if the hobgoblin wasn’t going to give it his best shot, oh GOD was it ever GOOD!!!_

“That—uuh—statement was…illogical,” Spock muttered, as he slowly drove forward, John sinking inch by inch down his dick. John wondered if it was possible to bottom out, Spock was sliding against his prostate and sending shocks up his spine with every further inch, and the doctor was seriously hoping not. Whatever couldn’t fit would be wasted inches. John craned back his head and pulled the Vulcan into another bruising kiss by his pointed _fucking_ ears, damn the awkwardness!

“Just _fuck_ me, Spock!”

Spock settled fully into the other’s body, every goddamn inch of him inside the other’s twitching sheath. “You are very tight, John,” he said through his teeth. The hobgoblin shifted his stance a bit wider, leaned a little harder against John and the wall, then unwrapped John’s legs from his waist, moved them to settle wider around his ribcage, giving the soldier a strange feeling of openness. Not helpless or girlish, you couldn’t be those things when all it would take would be a good _squeeze_ to crush another’s skull, but open. _Held._

And then Spock, green blooded, pointy eared _hobgoblin_ moved.

“Yeeaagghhh!! Ahhhhh!....Oooh, god! Does Uhura _really_ let you fuck others without consulting her? I take it all back! Uuugh! Ah! That woman’s _crazy_!”

The pace was quick from the get-go, and every withdrawal felt like it was sucking John inside out, simply turning his guts to liquid and emptying him of everything, even the feeling from his toes. By contrast, Spock’s thrusts back inside were waves of heat that put everything _back_ , and his cock _twitched_ , jumped, really, to the terribly devastating slide of thickness that spread him wide against his sweet spot.

The rapid full-not full sucking pouring _heat_ wide thick thick _thick_ sensation of sex was something the woman _had_ to be crazy to let others share.

_His_ gain, then!

John felt the way ease a bit for the rapid pounding in his ass, realized faintly that Spock’s precum was leaking out just because there wasn’t enough room inside for both it and Spock’s dick, and wasn’t _that_ an interesting image? He latched onto Spock’s shoulder with his mouth, sucking sweat off pale skin, with full intentions of leaving the largest green hickey anyone might ever see. Just to piss Uhura off. Then, he might make one under Spock’s ear to leave Jim wondering.

Knowing Jim, it would give the randy captain inconvenient hard-ons while on duty on the bridge. He redoubled his efforts.

Spock’s pace jumped, just a little.

John clung to the other’s slippery shoulders, Spock’s skin smelled faintly of sandstone and metal, his lab equipment and his home planet. Copper, from his blood, sweet and fruity, from his diet. There was an overlap of too-harsh chemical soap, but that was quickly fading as Spock got down and dirty. John was willing to bet that the sniffing in his hair was telling the goblin something about him, but damned if he knew what. Could he smell the dirt of earth, the way John could smell the sand of what once was Vulcan? Could he smell the iron that turned his blood candy apple red? Did he smell like salt and antiseptic? John had grown numb to his own scents from overexposure.

He didn’t want to be overexposed to Spock’s. It was nice.

_Homey_ , like he’d been looking for, though for a different definition of homey.

“Ooooh, yeah, Spock, c’mon, harder!”

Spock nodded, digging his fingers into sweaty human flesh and pounding into John _harder_. The rhythmic full-body slap of wet skin on hot metal was pathetically satisfying, and the entire cabin was hot and steaming up the barest bit. It stank of their skin and spit, and soon, it would stink of something else, too.

Spock’s angle shuddered, just a moment, a twist at the end of his thrust that sent John wailing in a distinctly less-manly manner.

“Holy, _fuck!_ Spock, do it again!”

After a few tries, Spock succeeded, and John, panting harshly, grappled for his erection. Spock’s brow furrowed, glaring down at the flushed red thing, and his digits, settled onto John’s ass to support him, twitched. “Proper etiquette would have me…do that for you.”

“Spock…shut up and keep doing that, or I—Yipe! Ahggh! Yeah! Oh _shit!_ ”

Reaper was reduced to incomprehensible half-words and disjointed exclamations as his alien lover fucked him through the wall. It should have been awkward. Wall sex generally was, especially in this position where the ‘bottom’ passive role had to be held up through the whole act…but they were super-human beings! They had muscle in _spades_ between them…what they didn’t have, under the circumstances, was stamina.

“Spock! Sp-ahhh-ck! Gonna come!”

“I…ugh!...I as well. Come! I wish to see…!!”

John’s vision when white and he shouted, ramming his head back as the shocks and waves of pleasure stabbed at his nerves moving from his ass out. There was the distinct itch of excess energy tingling on his skin just as his cock started to spurt his thick, white milk onto his chest and belly. His body jerked, Spock was making his desperate, final thrusts, as he too, fell into orgasm, clutching John to his body and quivering.

Then, slowly, they sank to the floor, still connected.

It took some minutes for John to float back to himself. Mind first, as always. Damn. Spock was a good lay. He’d be doing that again.

...except that his cover was blown in a massive way, and he really needed to not be on the Enterprise, anymore. Spock’s dark eyes blinked hazily, for a Vulcan, open.

“I will not be the one to turn you in, Leonard—John…Doctor.”

“Shit. Spock, I know that. In so far as I _can_ know that, I guess, but what about others? If I get caught at this…Spock, it’s worse than a federal offence to get caught lying to Star Fleet. I lied to _get in_. Now, I’m _really_ good, and it isn’t likely, but if someone dug hard enough, yeah, they’d figure out I’m not who I say I am, and if you try to help me out, you’ll get caught, too. That’s ‘accessory to conspiracy’, by the way. Earth citizen or not, you’d get deported to the Vulcan colony with a dishonorable discharge.” The soldier-doctor scratched his head, lightly pushing at Spock until the other disengaged from him, rolling over onto a hip. He shifted a bit at the wet, empty feeling, and shivered at the sudden cold. He reached for a nearby blue shirt, unsure if it was Spock’s or his own, and used it to wipe the sweat and jizz off his body.

He froze. “What smells like…?” Almost disbelievingly, John reached around behind himself and scooped a dab of Spock’s leaking cum off his inner thigh, and sniffed at it. And burst into laugher. “Oh my giddy god’s trousers! Spock, are you aware that your spunk smells like _peaches?!_ ”

Spock, green cheeked, muttered, “I have been told as much by Nyota.”

John sucked the fluid off his fingers with a shit eating green, “Oh my lord, it kinda tastes like them, too…!” he chuckled as he finished cleaning himself up and went on the search for his underpants.

“Doctor, if you would return to the previous subject, please?”

“Huh, wha? Oh, right. Spock, it’s gonna be really dangerous for me to remain on the Enterprise.”

“No more dangerous than it had been before, Doctor. I have not told others, and have no intention of telling.”

John—Leonard—smiled amusedly, “Shit. I guess not. Say, Spock?”

“Yes?”

“If I go back to the ship, will we be fuckin’ again?”

Spock’s gaze carefully roamed up and down the doctor’s body, half dressed again in underwear and pants, still unzipped. “I cannot say, Doctor. It seems unfair that you should be so energetic post-coitus when I am remaining exhausted and spent.”

Sure enough, Spock was the picture of ravished, or mauled, bruised green and orange in the best of ways, and Leonard laughed in his good boy southern way. He hadn’t laughed like that since his days at Ol’ Miss, before med school or marriage, or divorce, or Star Fleet. His laugh changed, went a little deeper, and it was John, who hadn’t laughed in nearly two hundred years so honestly. “Lemme help you up, hobgoblin.”

He extended a hand, and together they gathered up clothes and returned to the Enterprise where Jim was so happy to see them after eighty minutes completely missing during a strange blackout that he only made _one_ crack about the smell of sex and never using that particular shuttle again before sending them to the brig _just in case_ they were freakish doppelgangers or alien clones of themselves.

Hey, it was the _Enterprise_.

It took a month for Scotty to brave asking why there was a dent in the wall of one of his shuttles.

He dropped the question after Spock’s only response was to _smirk_.

And as it turned out, Jim’s only response to Spock’s plainly obvious hickies was to hit on Uhura with doubled enthusiasm. To her grimacing chagrin.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my LiveJournal and linked to in the original meme post, but I promise I'm the author, not some random person who also uses the screen name 'catc10'.


End file.
